


Paper wings

by Anuna



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Developing Friendship, Developing trust, F/M, Intimacy, Introspection, Pre-ship, Skye pov, Trust Issues, closeness, human connection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-29 10:32:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1004353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anuna/pseuds/Anuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe Ian Quinn was right. Maybe she is still looking for that good fit; maybe she needs protecting, if just for awhile, until she learns.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paper wings

**Author's Note:**

> I am enjoying the dynamics between these two, the push and pull and the way they're learning from each other, while trying to understand a completely different view on life. Last episode gave me lots of Skye!feels, and I wanted them to share a quiet moment. Here it is, still friendship - becoming - more, mostly because I am still getting to know two of them, and I'm enjoying the slow burn. I hope I did well! <3!!
> 
> Beta read by the wonderful and amazing **shenshen77** :)

_paper wings, all torn and bent,  
but you made me feel that they were heaven sent_ \- Gillian Welch, Paper Wings

 

*

 

There should be little connection between a plane and a sense of belonging. Planes are hollow metal boxes put together to imitate what Mother Nature achieved without risks of crashing down. Planes are not meant to be a place where you live, but vans aren't either. Maybe she has a warped sense of home. Maybe she doesn't have a home and doesn't need one. Maybe Ian Quinn was right. 

And maybe none of that is true. 

Skye turns from her back to her side. Her feet aren't cold any more and her hair isn't wet, and Ian Quinn and his goons are somewhere far away. She's okay with that. 

Her bunk is small, and it feels even smaller now, with Ward ( _Grant_ ) and his ridiculously long legs and the sound of his slow breathing, but it's not bad. His warmth fills the bunk and affects her, like he always affects her, and she won't even try resisting it now.  
One of the books he brought her (because that's what an SO should do) ended up next to her foot and she's not sure where the other one is. She pushes the one near her toes as far away as she can. She can't reach it but his feet are ridiculously long and that's something to take into account. 

Not being alone feels nice. There was a moment earlier when their conversation about literature slowed down and both lost the thread to wakefulness. She covered him with the blanket she was already using and when he sighed, relaxed and asleep, she closed her eyes. 

Quinn _was_ right, in a way. She doesn't think of it (tries not to), but at some point there will be no more places to run. And this is not about a tall guy running to her rescue, and not entirely about the fact that someone – multiple people – were (are) watching her back. And it's not about some idea of a home, whatever that should be. There's more. There's Fitz and Simmons not going to sleep because they need to figure out something as a shared brain, or Coulson, believing in people like the most idealistic person in the world, or... or May and whatever happened to her, and how _horrible_ it had to be, to make a person like her back away from the field. What kind of commitment motivates you to move yourself away so you wouldn't bring harm to others around you? And then there's Grant, and his stereotype wisdom and his tough guy bravado and the fear he'll fail protecting everyone. 

And how clichéd is this? She fell asleep next to her SO of all people (and that _still_ sounds funny, even though she doesn't make fun of it any more), and she doesn't remember when the last time was that she did this. Slept next to another human, like this, really close, bare feet touching and her fist curled next to his chest. 

“You're thinking,” he says then and startles her like he usually does. 

“It's my bed and I'm allowed to think,” her argument should be a witty one but all she manages is tiredly weak. 

“Don't,” he says much like he's giving her an order, which she still hates. 

“What happened to stay focused?”

“You need to rest,” he says reasonably, like he says everything (and he's probably right. No, she _knows_ he's right, and sometimes he makes her feel like a kid asking for things she shouldn't ask for.) Asking for what isn't hers and breaking the rules to get it, that's what she's good at. Like this thing right now, because she's pretty sure there's some rule about fraternizing and keeping a professional distance, even though professional and living in a flying box doesn't necessarily mix. 

“I can't,” she says, and it's the truth. 

He shifts, taking up most of the space in her bed, but she somehow doesn't mind. He's taking up so much space in her mind already, and she wonders how that happened, how this became her normal after living in a van and always running away.

“I know,” he says in a heavy way, in the voice of someone who understands. And she doesn't have to look at him right now, bear the weight of his eyes while he's trying to convince her that this is not a game (she knows, she fuckingknows, every time she remembers Quinn, the guy she admired not so long ago, pointing that gun at her face). 

“I was scared,” she admits. “Fucking scared. Being there all alone.”

She can feel him nod, remembers how he was suddenly there, big and unshakable and dangerous. Someone running to her rescue was never her narrative; she’s been the girl who never had shiny knights in any shape or form. 

“You took a lot of risk when you went in like that,” he says. “The more you train, the more you learn, the less risk there is.”

She nods and curls a little into herself, not exactly in a ball, but as much as she can while keeping small distance from him. She wonders which one she is doing right now – running away or staying? And he's there, just like he's there when she practices her punches, and she's pretty sure he won't try any kind of inappropriate touching. It's what he does, goes by the book and doesn't break rules. She's the one who pushes the lines, it's how she gets things done. It would be unfair to do something he wouldn't do, and it's weird, not wanting to cross the line. But she is still scared and all those moments are still flashing behind her eyes, so she finds his hand and touches her knuckles to his. He doesn't move, but doesn't pull back either and that's good enough for her. She slides her fingers under his, ever the taker of opportunities. With her palm turned upward she can feels his big fingers bend around hers until it feels like a good fit. 

“I don't wanna be scared any more,” she says, forehead close to his beating heart. He slowly removes his hand. The loss of his touch leaves her longing for contact until she feels him move her hair away, almost like he might hook a finger under her chin and kiss her. Except he won't, because to him it would be an unfair thing to do, and he'd probably be right about it. She's tired from running away and running alone, and she's tired of being scared and not belonging and if that's what SHIELD wants, she's ill equipped to fight against it. (They came for her. People don't come for her. Ever.) 

His hand on her shoulder is nice, less hug and more reassurance and she'll take it, every little bit of that something that helps her be just a bit calmer and figure this out. Maybe she needs protecting, if just for awhile, until she learns. But until she does she'll take these people who are willing to come for her - because it's their duty, because they're committed without questioning. _That's_ what she wants, and it feels like taking a leap with paper wings glued to her arms. 

She lets her face rest against Grant's chest and if that's wrong she chooses not to care.


End file.
